It was weird. He never dreamed that vividly, and he never had the same dream twice. Until this. It was the oddest thing he’d ever experienced.
“You’re quiet,” Gracie said, reaching over to rest her hand on his thigh.
“Lost in thought.”
“Want to talk about it?”
He shrugged. “It’s just a weird dream. All this stuff, looking at those dates and locations yesterday, I guess it’s bringing up the past more than I’m comfortable with.”
“Memories of your mom?”
“Not my mom so much as one of my stepmothers. And my father.”
“What about your father?”
He shrugged. “Jackson is an incredibly self-centered man. He often did things without thinking how it would impact the people around him. Like marrying a twenty-something nitwit with a ten-year-old son.”
“Billy’s mother?”
“Yeah. She was a piece of work.” Durango thought about the marks on Billy’s throat in his dream and knew why they kept coming up. He recognized them. “She once choked Billy so badly that he passed out.”
“Why would she do that?”
Durango shook his head. “I don’t know. They were alone in the room when it happened, and he wouldn’t talk about it afterward. But I remember the bruises they left on his throat. He wore turtlenecks for a week afterward.”
“Was she often abusive?”
“She was. To Jackson, too. There were several times when I walked into a room and found them arguing, or him holding her wrists to keep her from lashing out at him.”
“Did she ever hurt you?”
There was concern in Gracie’s voice. He lifted her hand and kissed her palm before pressing it against his chest.
“Bridgette liked me. She was always nice to me, and nice to Billy when he was in my company. But when they were alone . . . I’m pretty sure she was awful to both Billy and Jackson.”
“Whatever happened to her? I kind of assumed she’d died since Jackson kept custody of Billy, but I could never find a death certificate.”
“No. She’s still alive out there somewhere.” Durango shook his head, remembering the last time she’d disappeared. “She ran off a lot. Finally, Jackson told her she couldn’t come back. He filed for divorce, and that was that. I don’t know how he managed to retain custody of Billy. I always assumed she just didn’t want him back.”
“That’s sad.”
“He’s better off.”
Gracie nodded, her expression pensive.
“We’re coming up on Los Angeles. We should probably make a plan.”
She pulled her hand from his grip and leaned forward slightly. “They’re probably watching your father’s house.”
“Billy’s too, I imagine.”
“We should find a no-tell motel, and ask your father to meet us somewhere safe.”
Durango was quiet for a moment. “I have a better idea.”
“What’s that?”
“My father was once considered the most eligible bachelor in the country. He was constantly followed by the paparazzi and young starlets who saw him as a ticket to the big time. He couldn’t go anywhere without the whole world sitting up and taking notice.”
“So?”
“So, you’ve done research on me. How often did I appear in the tabloids before my seventeenth birthday?”
“Not often.”
“No. That’s because my father, in one of his rare moments of parental concern, had a back entrance built onto his property that very few people know of. There’s a tunnel that runs under the house, a whole complicated thing that was very adventurous when we were kids. I doubt he uses it anymore, but I could probably get us in and out without the FBI being any the wiser.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. We can make a pass of the neighborhood first, but I doubt anyone’s even aware it’s there.”
Gracie glanced at him. “Now I’m really excited to meet your father.”
“You’ve met.”
“I mean more than just a quick pass.”
Durango shook his head. “You’ll be disappointed. Most people are.”
* * *
The tunnel entrance was right where Durango remembered, a small grate stuck in the soft soil in an alleyway a block from his father’s backyard. He couldn’t imagine the permits it had taken and the payoffs required to have it built. He’d never wondered about his father’s motivations, just enjoyed the opportunity for adventure and the reduced attention he’d always gotten as the son of Jackson Chamberlain. But as a grown man, it made him wonder, and he didn’t like it. He wasn’t prepared to see his father in any light than the one he’d always seen him in, as the man who bullied his mother into suicide.
They drove the neighborhood three times, easily picking out the two men watching the front of the house and the one sitting on one open side of the property. But no one was watching the alley where the tunnel entrance was. They left the SUV in a busy mall parking lot and took a taxi, having it drop them nearly a mile from the alley. It was kind of nice walking after being cooped up in that SUV for so long, even with both their duffels tossed over his shoulder.
The tunnel was filled with cobwebs. They were halfway through when lights came on, brightening the way. And when they reached the end, the man himself was standing in the doorway clad in a pair of jeans that were rolled up at the ankle and a long linen shirt that was as white as his bleached teeth.
“Jackson.”
He smiled, his hands reaching out for his only biological son.
“I knew you’d come to me, boy. I’m glad you finally made it.”
Chapter 12
Los Angeles, California
Jackson Chamberlain’s Home
Gracie could feel the tension rolling off Durango as his father spoke. He lowered his head slightly, clearly unaware of, or ignoring, the pleasure that shone from his father’s eyes. Was his anger so deeply ingrained that he couldn’t see what was right in front of him?
Gracie studied Jackson Chamberlain’s face. She’d met him once, briefly, but hadn’t had the opportunity she had now to really look at him, to really see the pride and admiration written all over his face as he studied his son. There was relief in his eyes, too, a relief that came from a deeply rooted affection that was undeniable. For a moment, Gracie was hit with a wave of grief. That look was one she knew, one she’d known. It was the same look her own mother had on her face whenever Gracie went home after an absence, no matter how long or short it had been.
“Father,” Durango said in a deep tone that was completely devoid of emotion.
“The FBI knocked on my door this morning,” Jackson informed them. “And they’re sitting outside the gates, watching for you to arrive. I’m glad you remembered the tunnel.”
Durango just nodded before turning to Gracie, drawing her close to his side. “You remember Gracie?”
“Of course.” Jackson took her hand and smiled a charming smile that was not unlike his son’s. “How are you, Gracie?”
“Fine, thank you.”
Jackson stepped back and gestured for them to enter the house. The tunnel door opened into a large, spacious kitchen that looked as though it could handle the work of a moderately sized restaurant. All the appliances were stainless steel, the counters a bright white marble. It looked as though one could perform surgery on those counters, they were so clean. And the tall windows on the far wall let in so much light that it almost hurt her eyes.
“Why is the FBI looking for you? They refused to tell me, and when I called Mastiff, they said you were under investigation for the death of a producer in Chicago? That’s not the same producer Billy was working with, is it?”
“It is.” Durango slid his hand down Gracie’s back, urging her forward. “Would you mind if we go into the living room? I’m sure we could all use a drink.”
“Of course.”
Jackson led the way, his movements graceful and full of confidence. It reminded her of
Durango, though Jackson had more of a dip to his shoulders than Durango. But the two men were much more alike than Durango probably appreciated. Both were insanely tall, both muscular in all the right places. And both were darkly handsome, though Jackson had allowed the hair at his temples to go white. But looking at Jackson was like getting a snapshot of what Durango would be like at his age. It was a pleasant picture.
The living room was massive, filled with huge couches and expensive end tables. It was just as flooded with light as the kitchen had been, thanks to tall windows and glass doors that opened out into a gorgeously kept garden that seemed to go on for miles behind the house. Durango urged her to take a seat on one of the camel colored couches while he went to the corner bar. She watched closely, hoping he wouldn’t start drinking again. The last thing they needed was for him to fall into one of those dark depressions that alcohol sometimes created for him. But he chose seltzer water instead, fixing a single tumbler of whiskey and handing it to his father.
“This is about the Harrison Strangler,” Jackson guessed.
“Isn’t everything?” Durango handed Gracie a glass and settled beside her, his own tumbler caught between both hands. “The Chicago police came to arrest me several nights ago for the murder of Felicity Meeks.”
“Based on what evidence?”
“Fingerprints.” Durango glanced at his father. “I worked a case for Felicity last month—the Stranger’s Retreat thing. I’m sure Billy told you all about it.”
“He did.”
“I was in her apartment two weeks ago and, I guess, I left my fingerprints on something, and that’s what they found.”
“Just fingerprints?”
Durango stared down at his glass. “They also established she’d had sexual relations before her death. I think they assumed they’d find my DNA on her.”
Jackson cocked his head, the question clearly on his lips. Durango tensed.
“It wasn’t him,” Gracie informed the elder Chamberlain. “He was in Springfield the night in question.”
“You can prove that?”
“I can,” Gracie said, thinking of the video that was still on her computer at her apartment in Springfield. “But we didn’t have time to go through the legal channels. The Springfield police were also on their way to arrest him for the rape of Detective Hyde.”
Jackson shook his head, swallowing a deep gulp of his whiskey, but not commenting.
Silence fell between them. Heavy silence. Gracie chewed on her cheek, her eyes moving around the room, curious despite the grave circumstances. There were pictures, professional pictures of Durango and Billy through the years. He’d always been handsome, even as an awkward teen with a few scattered pimples on his face. It was truly unfair.
“How did you get him out?” Jackson finally asked.
And there was the moment. They’d have to tell Jackson the truth, and that could, potentially, put everyone in a precarious situation. If she told Jackson she was FBI, he could walk right out his front door and tell her colleagues that they were there. Or he could keep quiet, and after they left, if the FBI started asking him questions and he didn’t tell them she was there, he could be in trouble. If the FBI decided to raid the house why they were there and Jackson couldn’t deny what he knew . . . Or if the FBI had bugged the house when they stopped by that morning. There were so many possibilities of trouble at this moment they were almost uncountable.
Durango allowed her to choose how much to say and how much to keep to herself.
Gee, thanks!
Gracie took a deep breath. “I’m FBI. I asked a friend to print up a bogus transfer request to get him released from the county lock up.”
“And they bought it?”
She tilted her head. “There was no reason not to. But they figured out it was bogus much sooner than I anticipated. I thought we’d have at least a couple of days. A week at most. But the alarm went up almost immediately.”
“It had to have been Petrovich,” Durango said.
“Petrovich? That asshole who arrested you for Sarah’s murder?”
Durango was surprised his father recognized the name. Gracie got the impression that Durango was often surprised when Jackson displayed any sort of effort when it came to him.
“He was the one who came to Springfield to arrest Durango,” Gracie informed the elder Chamberlain.
Jackson took a moment to think that through while finishing the last bit of whiskey in his glass. He set it down on the table and leaned forward, his hands clasped between his knees.
“Now what?”
Durango began to speak, but Gracie laid her hand on his knee, squeezing it lightly.
“Like I said, I’m an FBI agent. I was working at Mastiff undercover because of Durango’s connection to the strangler.”
“You thought he was guilty.”
“My supervisors thought he was guilty. I knew that the real killer was connected to him in some way, and I wanted to find out how.”
Jackson tilted his head. “Because he killed Sarah?”
Durango glanced at her. This, too, was a delicate moment. What if Jackson was the killer? How would he respond when she told him that she knew about the other murders, the ones here in California and the various other places where he’d filmed movies? Would he panic and lash out? Or would he play it off, pretend he had no idea what she was talking about?
She was deeply curious to find out.
“There have been other murders beginning nearly twenty years ago. The first that I’ve been able to identify was in San Francisco.”
“Do you remember filming outdoor scenes for City of Stars?” Durango asked.
Jackson’s eyes fell to the floor. “I do. I also remember the news reports of the coed who died that summer.”
“She was strangled in her dorm room.”
“But they arrested someone. He’s still in prison, isn’t he?”
“He is.” Gracie leaned forward and set her glass on the table, rubbing her hands together to wipe away the moisture the glass had left on them. “But I believe he was wrongly convicted.”
“Why?”
“Because there were others, murders that fit the modus operandi of that killing almost perfectly. Other young students, mostly. A prostitute in one location. A couple of waitresses.”
Jackson shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
“Gracie has traced all the murders that fit this killer’s MO to locations where you filmed movies over the years. Places where I was present.”
Jackson tilted his head, his brow furrowed. “How is that possible?”
“Every murder took place in a location and time when Durango was living in that area or visiting that area.” Gracie squeezed his knee again. “There were fifteen murders in this country before the Chicago murders, fifteen women murdered in California, Texas, Colorado, New York, Georgia, and Florida. All women strangled. All women whose bodies were posed at the crime scene. All scenes where the mirrors were covered, and the art taken from the walls.”
Jackson’s face paled slowly as she spoke. But it wasn’t the kind of reaction she would expect from a perpetrator. It was the kind that came from an innocent man who knew something he wished he didn’t. She watched him closely, watched the emotions play over his face as he stared down at the floor. She’d witnessed many, many interrogations in her time with the FBI, and she’d conducted many more on her own. She knew when someone was hiding something. This man knew something.
Durango wasn’t looking at his father. He was looking into the depths of his glass. “We need your help, Jackson,” he said so softly that he didn’t sound like himself. “We need to know who was in those places during those times. We need to know how to narrow our suspect lists.”
“You think it’s someone in my employ.”
“It has to be.”
Jackson nodded, lifting his hands to rub the top of his head. His hands were shaking, his expression twisted with whatever it was he was struggling with.
“I’ll go through my records and make you a list.”
“Just the people who aren’t documented on the films. We already have those lists.”
He nodded. “Fifteen?”
There was pain in his voice when he spoke the number.
“Fifteen. With the women in Chicago and those in Springfield, the number comes up to twenty-seven.”
Jackson doubled over, the look on his face suggestive of the shock of pain that number must have created for him. This was not a man who took life in cold blood. That was the look of a man who felt a deep sense of guilt for something. But what? What did he have to feel guilty for? Did he know who was responsible for this? Was it someone close to him?
She wanted to ask, but knew now was not the time.
Durango stood. “We’ve been driving all day. We need to get some rest.”
“Of course.” Jackson pulled himself to his feet, a task that was clearly more difficult now than it had been before their conversation. “Your room is clean, the linens freshly changed. There should be towels in the bathroom, too. But, if not, feel free to call Randall. He’s around here somewhere.”
Durango didn’t respond. He set his glass on the table, untouched like hers, and took her hand, leading the way out of the room.
The house was much bigger than Gracie had imagined. They had to cross a hall the size of half a football field to get to the stairs. Halfway up, there was a landing that was bigger than her bedroom back in Springfield. And the light . . . It was a little overwhelming how many windows and how much natural light filled this house. It was beginning to dim now that the sun was going down, but it was still impressive. Maybe more so now that the colors had turned to shades of pink and purple.
At the top of the stairs, they found themselves in a square whose center was cut out, open to a room downstairs that appeared to be some sort of playroom, filled with a pool table and multiple video games that had once graced the walls of arcades. The back wall was solid glass. The front wall lined with walnut doors with beautiful carvings on them. Durango led the way across this section of the square, his step stumbling slightly as they passed double doors in the left corner. Gracie glanced at them even as Durango pulled at her hand, dragging her away from them as quickly as he could.
Mastiff Security: The Complete 5 Books Series Page 77
